


Four Times Scott Carries Stonebridge and That One Time Stonebridge Carries Scott

by MyOwen



Category: Strike Back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5879089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOwen/pseuds/MyOwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're not heavy."<br/>"You're my brother."<br/>"I'll carry you anywhere."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love seeing Stonebridge and Scott’s obvious love for each other. I don’t know if you notice, but everytime Scott thinks Stonebridge is in danger, he yells his name and makes sure Michael’s okay before doing anything else. The big lug is so cute. And have you seen Michael’s chest? It should be illegal, how handsome that guy is. *drools*  
> Sorry, no beta. Written for fun, and not for profit.

**Four Times Scott Carries Stonebridge and That One Time Stonebridge Carries Scott**

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

 

There’s blood everywhere. On the bed, on the carpet, on the hardwood floor leading up to the bathroom. Dark, clumpy, metallic smell. I should be used to this, it comes with the job. Part of the lifestyle. Part of being a soldier. No biggie. Doesn’t faze me. But this is a different kind of blood. The worst kind - blood of the innocent.

 

 

I follow the blood trail into the bathroom, making sure to peer into corners prior to barging in, so ingrained and instinctual that I don't even know I do it. It’s clean and organized. There are blue candles on almost every surface, white fluffy towels on silver racks, bottles of shampoo neatly placed against recessed tiles. I see a white sunken bathtub and sitting inside with his back to the wall is Stonebridge. His eyes are hollowed, jaw clenched so tightly it must be painful. The white boxers hanging low on his waist now look purple, his hands and naked torso are covered with blood. But not his. If only it was.

 

“Hey buddy,” I venture. Afraid to say anything. Afraid to say nothing. He looks up from his intent study of his hands. His hands that are covered in red. The skin on his face looks so taut against his cheekbones. He looks broken. “Let’s go. Kerry’s on her way to the hospital,” I sit against the lip of the tub. “We can follow the ambulance in my car.” No response. I’m not sure he hears me. “Michael, let’s get you cleaned up.” I have never seen him this way. He looks smaller, older. Shattered. I reach in and turn the faucet on, making sure the water is not too cold, not too hot. Just right. Like fucking Goldilocks and the Three Fucking Bears. I don’t know why I bother. Stonebridge doesn’t even move a muscle. I turn the overhead shower on and the water slowly drenches him, the white ceramic suddenly looks violently red. Fucking blood. All the mother fucking blood.

 

“She’s gone,” I hear Michael whisper. So low, I think I must’ve imagined it. “She’s gone,” he says again, a bit louder this time. 

 

 

“I’m sorry, Mikey,” I don’t know what to say. Throw me in a burning building, have people shoot at me, burn my balls off with a cattle prod and I’m good. But not now. Not here. Not with Michael’s pain.

 

 

“We were going to name her Ela,” he says, his voice hoarse. Water dripping down his face.

 

 

“That’s beautiful, buddy.” And it is. My heart breaks.

 

 

“We saw her heartbeat. Just yesterday. I don’t know… what... happened,” he sounds like a little boy. Asking questions I am not equipped to answer. “What happened?” his eyes bore into mine. “She’s supposed to have Kerry’s hair. And my lips. Kerry’s eyes. I was hoping she wouldn’t get my ears. Have you seen my ears, Scott? She can’t have my ears. She needs small dainty ones. Because she’s ssssmall and p..p…precious and….” I can see Michael’s shoulders start to shake. Shock is now being replaced by grief. I wish I’m better at this. I wish I'm not this big clumsy Yank who has no clue on how to handle heartbreak. I wish Richmond is here. She’ll know what to say, what to do. 

 

 

“Mikey, I’m so sorry buddy.” I clamber up the bathtub, uncaring of the water splashing my face and sit next to him. Water drips down my face, soaking my clothes. 

 

 

“What happened?” he asks again. “Did I do something wrong? I think I did. I’m supposed to take care of her. Damien. I’m supposed to take care of her.” He starts hitting the wall with his right fist. “My baby girl. My baby,” his hand starts to bleed. Red rivulets cascading down the stark white tile. Blood. His blood, finally. Not his unborn child’s. 

 

 

I grab his fist with my right hand and his shoulder with my left. I hold him against me with all my might. I’m expecting some resistance. Afterall, this is big, bad, Sergeant Stonebridge. SAS soldier. Elite of the elite. But there’s none. He holds on to me as if he’s drowning and I’m his last hope for salvation. His hollowed eyes finally fill and he cries silent tears, falling on my shoulder, mixing with the water pouring down our heads. 

 

 

“I’m sorry buddy, I’m so sorry Mikey,” is all I can manage.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

I have never seen Stonebridge this fucking drunk out of his mind before. The usually staid and stoic soldier is now slumped against the bed’s headboard, whiskey bottle being brandished about in his right hand whenever he starts talking. And talk, he does. I have never heard him talk so much in all our time together. He’s usually a monosyllabic grunter which drives me insane most days. Oh, how I'm wishing for those days right about now.

 

“…and another thing, Scott,” he slurs on. “You fuckin’ hit on her the very first time you fuckin’ saw her,” he points the bottle at me.

 

“Yeah, yeah Stonewall,” I admit. “You know I try to put my leg over anyone who stays still for five minutes.” I try to joke with a lightness I don’t feel.

 

“Yeah, you twat,” his eyes are glazed with alcohol. “But see, you had no chance in hell with her because she was already involved with me!” he crows with this achievement. “....And now... she’s gone,” Michael’s voice hitches.

 

“I’m sorry, Mikey,” I swallow. “I’m so sorry, buddy.” What else can I say? What do you say to someone who just lost a lover? Not to disease or old age, but to a fuckin’ bomb attached to her fuckin’ chest. I don’t think words have been invented for this clusterfuck of a situation just yet. 

 

“It’s my fault, mate,” his voice is low, scratchy. “It’s my fuckin’ fault that she’s dead.” He throws the bottle against the wall and it shatters and pelts me with its sticky sweetness. I stand up from the couch and join Michael on the bed. There’s an angry stillness in him that worries me. I’m half glad that he let go enough to shatter the damn whiskey bottle. Anything’s better than the grave shell of a man he has been the last few days. 

 

“I know it’s bad form to mourn your lover in front of your wife, but I really, really, want to call Kerry right now, Damien.” His eyes are glittering with alcohol fever and I suspect, unshed tears.

 

“I know, buddy,” I commiserate. “But trust me, you don’t want to do that.” I nudge his shoulder with mine, “Just pretend I’m her,” is my brilliant idea. “Go on, tell me what you want to tell her.” He looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles. But I can see a glimmer of hopefulness in his eyes when it was all despair just a little while ago.

 

“She is... was... an amazing woman, Scott.” he starts. I poke his ribs with my elbow, “er...I mean... Kerry.” He swallows. “She was brave and warm and real. She kicked my arse whenever I needed it,” he scoffs, “which is most of the time, what with my Neanderthal machismo ways, as she puts it.” 

 

“How’d you guys meet?” I ask him. He barks a short painful laugh.

 

“Ah. That’s a story for the ages, mate,” his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “She was my superior at SAS training bootcamp. And she kicked my arse all over the place.” His eyes are far away in remembrance.

 

“Well that’s not hard to do,” I quip back. “You _are_ pretty kickable.”

 

“I remember this particular mission,” he says, ignoring me completely. “Dalton instructed us to bring a live suspect, but I kept accidentally killing them all,” he smiles goofily. “And then finally we were down to the last live one, who was getting ready to shoot her, so of course I shoot him first,” he turns to me. “Wouldn’t you do the same thing, if it was you?” he implores. “He was gonna shoot her, for fucks sake!” He rolls his head against the headboard. “So of course after I shot him, she wallops me good with her right hook.” He laughs. “And it fuckin’ hurt!”

 

I smile at the memory. Sounds like the Kate I know.

 

 

“And now she’s gone,” he whispers. “She’s gone, Damien. She’s gone. I keep expecting her to show up at the Crib to boss me about.” His eyes are starting to close. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault.” he mumbles continuously as his head lolls over my side of the bed. His left cheek is now propped up against my right shoulder. His endless murmurs of blame and guilt and sadness break my heart. I don’t know exactly when he turned from a giant pain in my ass, to a trusted friend. But somehow, this stubborn, obstinate, unmoving, brave soul, has wormed his way into my cold, dark heart.

 

I look at his face, finally peaceful in sleep, and think of all the times he has saved me from myself, figuratively and literally. The violent missions, the scary as fuck assignments, the bloody operations. We’ve been through a lot together. We’ve slept in deserts, our backs against each other for warmth. We’ve traveled third world forests in complete silence in hopes of escaping vicious madmen. We’ve seen each other bloodied and torn, our insides open for all to see. We have pulled dead, mangled bodies from cars. We have lied to people as they were dying. We’ve said you are going to be fine as we held their hand and watched the life fade out. We have had people try to stab us. Fought with men trying to shoot us. Ben attacked by women who have had the shit kicked out of them by their husbands as we were taking them in. We have held towels on bullet wounds. Done CPR when we knew it wouldn't help just to make family members feel better. We have torn down doors, fought in drug houses. Defused bombs. Chased fugitives though the woods. We’ve been in high speed car chases. Foot chases across an interstate during rush hour traffic. We’ve been in car crashes. Been squeezing the trigger about to kill a man when they came to their senses and stopped. Waded through large angry crowds by ourselves. Drove like mad men to help a fellow soldier. Let little kids who don't have much sit in our cars and pretend they are badass cops for their birthdays. We’ve taken a lot of people to jail. Given many breaks. Prayed for people we don't even know. Been violent when we had to be. We have been kind when we could.

                      

We’ve gone to some dark places, have cried together when we were overwhelmed, have put our foreheads together, breathing each other’s air. We have seen the best and the worst in each other. I’m willing to bet my last diamond that we have the same dreams. That we share the same fears. That we have the same nightmares at night. I look at Michael’s face... and I see my own.

 

 

*Michael Waters’ words are powerful. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“If you need a job, Soldier Boy, give me a call.” James Leatherby runs his hand over Stonebridge’s shoulder, down his neck. At this rate, he will feel the hidden microphone that’s taped down his chest in a few seconds. Pretending to take a sip out of my whiskey glass by the roulette table, I can see Stonebridge’s perfect posture start to wilt. Trying to get inside Leatherby’s group of rogue arms traffickers is proving to be more challenging than we first realized. Leatherby is a cruel sonofabitch with a violently jealous streak as proven by him killing a poor bartender just because of an imagined slight from Farhan, Leatherby’s boyfriend.

As Leatherby feels up Stonebridge’s torso, Farhan just sits there by the bar, cradling his injured hand. The same hand that Leatherby shot because of his jealousy. He’s probably daydreaming of Stonebridge leaping at Leatherby, fucking him senseless on the casino floor, and taking his cruel boyfriend far, far away from him.

“Or....” Leatherby continues, “Call me anyway,” his hand continues its wandering, down Stonebridge’s muscular chest.

“Bravo Two, this is Zero,” Major Rachel Dalton’s voice is loud in my earpiece. “Mission looks to be compromised. Get ready to abort in three... two....”

“Hi Darlin’,” I nonchalantly saunter over to where they’re sitting by the bar and put my arms around Stonebridge’s shoulders, effectively halting Leatherby’s roving hands.

“Er... Hi, Baby,” Stonebridge is nothing but quick on his feet. He leans his back towards me, as if happy to see a lover, efficiently positioning his body away from Leatherby without rousing suspicion.

“Baby?” Leatherby focuses evil eyes at me. “I didn’t know I was stepping on someone else’s property,” his eyes gleam black. “I apologize.”

“No apologies necessary, mate.” Stonebridge deflects smoothly. My arms are still around his shoulder but Leatherby has a suspicious glint in his eyes. I lean down and start rubbing my cheek against Stonebridge’s head. His short hair pricks at my stubble.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to this lovely vision, bae?” I ask Stonebridge.

“Bae?” I hear Braxton in my earpiece, and a sound suspiciously snort-like from Richmond.

“This is the infamous James Leatherby I was talking to you about last night,” Stonebridge looks up at me from his perch on the barstool, eyes hard, bellying his casual voice.

“I’m the topic of your pillow talk?” Leatherby asks. “Two handsome, tall drinks of water discussing moi? Be still, my heart. And other large, very large, appendages I shudder to mention.” Leatherby says lasciviously.

“Temptation, thy name is James.” I say smoothly. I can do flirting with the best of them, with my eyes closed, with both my hands tied behind my back. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Leatherby” I offer a hand while keeping the other on Stonebridge’s neck. Leatherby shakes it enthusiastically, lingering just a beat too long to be appropriate.

“Pleasure is all mine, Mr...” the question lingers in the air.

“This is Langley,” Stonebridge provides.

“Mr. Langley, your boy here is one hell of a soldier. I’m trying to convince him to work for me.” Leatherby is cool as can be.

“I think I can convince him,” I place a kiss on Stonebridge’s head and I feel his hand creep up my neck as if in affection, but I know otherwise when I feel his hand squeeze a little too tightly. I kiss his head again, this time, lingeringly with a hint of tongue just to bust his balls, and his hand crushes my neck. The motherfucker is trying to kill me. “Do you offer medical dental?” I ask the man in front of me, regarding us with narrowed eyes. He laughs uproariously, throwing his head back in amusement.

“You got yourself a comedian there, Byers,” he tells Stonebridge.

“Don’t I know it, mate,” he finally eases his death grip on my neck. I’m gonna kick his ass when this is over.

“Well, it has been a real treat meeting you both. I apologize once again for stepping on what’s yours, Langley. He is just too damn loin-stirring. I should’ve realized you’re together. It’s quite obvious looking at you two. The sexual charge is so high, I’m surprised it hasn’t rendered me naked and orgasm’d senseless right here where I stand,” Leatherby thinks he’s funny.

“We are that,” I say, deadpan. “I climb this man like a tree every night. Even if we are complete opposites. I’m more a laid-back, go with the flow sort. Byers here, is the rigid, inflexible, stick-up-his-ass fellow.”

“Stick-up-his-ass?” Leatherby is all perked up at this. “Literally?”

“Sometimes,” I confirm. “Othertimes, it’s a carrot.” I hear Sinclair clear his throat back at the crib.

“Lucky sonovabitch,” Leatherby utters. “Farhan!” He yells at the boytoy by the bar, “Why can’t you ever do that for me?” he complains. He puts his arm around Farhan and manhandles him out the door, mumbling something about gerbils and unappreciative man boys. We all hold our breaths until we see him and his gang of misfits clear the casino bar. “Call me!” He says to Stonebridge in parting. We all collectively exhale a sigh of relief once sure that they’ve gone.

 

“Oy, you’re going to regret molesting me that way once we get back to the Crib,” Stonebridge promises.

“You’re welcome, Stonebrick,” I say, massaging his rippling back muscles with my hands. “I saved your fucking ass. Again!” He elbows me in the ribs, hard.

“Awe, Scott, I didn’t know you had it bad for Stonebridge,” Richmond says in my ear.

“What the fuck you talkin’ about, Julia?” I ask testily. “I just one-handedly saved this mission,” I pointed out what should be an obvious fact.

“Are your loins good and stirred?” Dalton smirks.

“DADT is well represented here, folks” Sinclair, the traitor.

“I knew you were just waiting for the right moment to jump my bones,” Stonedick joins the barrage of stupidity.

“Up yours, Stonehenge,” I tell the stupid fucker.

“Maybe later, Damien.” Stonebridge winks.

If Leatherby doesn’t kill my entire team in this insurmountable mission, I promise, I will.


	4. Chapter 4

She has really beautiful tits, is the first thing I think of as I slowly wake up from my usual nightmare of blood and darkness. She’s gyrating her body against mine, her chestnut hair falling between our faces to create a curtain of privacy.

“Good morning, Lover Boy,” she greets my sleepy eyes.

“This is a great way to wake up,” I tell her. Shit, I forgot her name. Lisa, Linda, Lissette?

“You better be gentle this time, Damien. I’ll be surprised if I can walk properly from the way you fucked me last night,” she complains.

"Ummm.... Sorry?" I have no recollection at all of last night. I try to remember what the hell happened but I only see glimpses of whiskey, women, Stonebridge, dancing. And now my head starts throbbing. I must've consumed my weight in alcohol last night. Lisa... Linda... Lissette is now moving down my body, kissing my neck, my chest, my stomach, my.... oh shit. I guess I'm not that drunk. My other head is responding happily to her ministrations. Jesus, she's good. Without using her hands, she swallows me whole. And not to brag or anything, but that's a mean feat, considering my girth. What? I'm not exaggerating! I've seen guys at locker rooms and besides freak of nature Stonebridge, I've never seen anyone's dick as big as mine. She opens her mouth even wider and I can feel my cock hit the back of her throat. Fuck me, I'm going to come.

My phone starts playing Beyonce's Single Ladies - I'm going to kill Baxter for that one. I automatically answer it in case it's another emergency mission. "Yeah?" I pant into the phone.

"Scott, you have to rescue me," Stonebridge whispers on the other end. I sit up so fast that the girl below me got startled enough to draw teeth against my member.

"Gaaah, no teeth, no teeth, baby," I plead.

"Huh? What teeth are you talking about, Damien?" The whispering continues.

 

"Where are you? Who's after you? Don't move a muscle, I'll be right there," I say, panicked.

"No one's after me, you daft fool." Michael says, exasperated. "I'm talking about rescuing me from the girl I have here in my room."

"What the hell are you talking about, dickwad?" I start to lie down again, enjoying her fingers grasping my balls.

"I um... I am not quite ready to sleep with anyone at the moment." He says sheepishly.

"It's been two years since Kerry died, Mikey." I implore. "You need to move on." I don't know how I'm still coherent, seeing as Linda is now busy sucking my sack. Oh, God it feels so good. Pain and pleasure.

"I'm just not ready, Damien." Michael cajoles. "I'm not wired to sleep around. I tried, I really did, but I just can't go through with it."

"Michael. You have to do this. Not fucking is bad for your health. Your juices might be all crud and nasty, all that muck stuck inside your body. You have to get rid of that foul toxin." I am very knowledgeable about all this.

"Mate, you are disgusting."

“Don’t you have any sexual urges?” I ask, honestly curious.

“I have sexual urges, fucker. But I... take care of it,” he sounds embarrassed.

“So what’s the difference between rubbing one out yourself versus rubbing against a real pussy?” I’m trying to get to the bottom of Michael Stonebridge’s psyche, which isn’t very smart, plus it’s shitty timing, considering the girl is now touching her beautiful tits while doing sinful tongue manipulations on my dick.

“It just is, Damien!” he hisses.

"Why are you whispering?" Jesus, Mary, Joseph. Now Lisa is slowly sticking a finger up my ass while she hollows her cheeks and start sucking my cock with hose-like pressure.

"She's ah... she kind of started undressing me when we woke up, so I pretended I had to go to the loo. Now I'm in the bathroom. On the phone. With you."

"Michael, I'm going to hang up the phone now." You crazy Brit.

"Scott, we're not all walking Casanovas like you." He says, frantic. "Some of us think sleeping with someone actually has to mean something."

"It does mean something, it means you're going to finally get lucky and break your self torturing celibacy." I reason with him.

"Damien, stop your gibberish and come rescue me next door." He's now talking loud enough that I can actually hear him from our connecting hotel door. "Are you going to help me or not?"

Oh Jesus. Fuck, fuck. Lissette is hitting something near my prostate that feels amazing. My eyes roll to the back of my head. "Aaaah... Aaaah.... Hokay, ho-kay. I'm gonna come rescue you." I grunt into the phone.

"Hurry up, wanker" is the thanks I get.

"Linda. Baby. Jesus. Fuck me. You have to stop."

The pleasure abruptly stops, "It's Bambi. With an i," she corrects me, insulted.

Bambi? With an i? How the hell could I have forgotten that? I'm such a stupid fucker. "My bad. Sorry Bambi. I have to go rescue a friend."

"Who the hell are you talking to?" Michael asks. "Jesus Christ, were you having sex this whole time? While I was talking to you?" His voice keeps getting higher. "You're such a twat!"

"Yeah, yeah. You owe me a big one, buddy." I remind him. "You owe me a big hummer and a mind-blowing orgasm."

"Just get your fuckin’ ass over here," he's desperate. “I can hear her walking around already.” He is such a coward.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, geez louise. Just hold your fucking horses. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

And so, that's how I find myself, blue balls and all, escorting a very beautiful, very disappointed woman from Stonebridge's hotel room into a waiting taxicab by the curb.

Fuck my life.


	5. Chapter 5

I've done a lot of things in my life that I regret. Forks in the road where I chose the easier route. I've lead a hard existence, a solitary one, a soldier's lot in life filled with hardship, pain, loss. But of all these things, there's one decision that I regret most of all. The one where I walked away from my son.

I was 18, she was a few months younger. We were volatile together. Passion and temper and young love, a combination ripe with disaster. When she found out that she was pregnant, she was ecstatic. Her family life is shit, dad left when she was five, mom barely has time for a precocious little girl who turned into a rebellious little hellion. She figured having a baby will be her chance to finally find the unconditional love she's been looking for all her life. But I didn't want a kid. I was a kid myself. My life going nowhere, hanging out with the bad crowd in the neighborhood, acting hard and untouchable and stupid. Starting to figure out that with my photographic memory, my height, my love of brawls, my intelligence, that I was destined to be the leader of this little gang. I was a tough little shit. But inside, I was a coward. I left her and the baby she was carrying. Went to military school, got hand picked to train as a sharp shooter, then Delta, CIA assassin, a cage wrestler in the pits of Kuala Lumpur, then Section Twenty. In all this time, there's always been a niggling thought in the back of my mind. My son. I have a son. Somewhere out there in the real world, I've created something good.

And now, here I am, in the boonies of Thailand, hiding once again, like the coward that I am. Finn is coming to see me. Finn. My son. My 16 year old son. But I can't seem to make myself go. I can't gather enough courage to face him after all these years.

 

I hear footsteps behind me and I spin around with my gun aimed at the intruder.

"Jesus, Scott. It's me," Stonebridge's unmistakable proper British voice spears my consciousness.

"How the fuck did you find me?" I really want to know. I'm in the middle of the jungle, smoking and thinking my dark thoughts, away from everyone. Or so I thought.

"You weren't answering my calls so I had Baxter trace your phone," the little shit informs me.

I holster my gun, walk a few steps towards a fallen tree, and sits my ass down. Stonebridge ignores the fact that I want to be left alone, and sits down next to me.

"Your son will be at the airport in a few minutes." He reminds me, like I haven't been constantly thinking of that fact for the past several days.

"Oh really," dripping with sarcasm. "Thank you so very much for reminding me."

There's silence for a few beautiful minutes then Michael breaks it again. "So... why are you here in the middle of nowhere when you're supposed to be picking him up?" Oh, now he's suddenly Chatty Cathy where usually, getting him to talk is like pulling teeth.

"Leave me alone, Michael." I say, not looking at him.

"No can do, Damien." Stubborn fucker.

"Look, I really think he's better off without me," I try to reason with him. "Look at me. Look at my fucking life. We're in Thailand, running after terrorists. We kill people. My goddamn gun is an extension of my goddamn arm. I sleep with one eye open in case there's trouble. And people trying to kill us are the norm, not the exception. What kind of life is that for a kid to see?" My voice rises.

Stonebridge looks around the little jungle I've chosen to wallow in. There's a small stream to our right, a carabao grazing on the grass. Dragonflies chasing each other across the field. One lands on my boot. It has transparent wings, glittering green in the sunlight. "So he's sixteen, huh?" He says, ignoring my rant.

"Yeah."

"You should've kept the diamonds, mate. Kids are expensive." He says, perfectly reasonable, as always. I snort a laugh. "You need medical, dental, 401k..."

"Shit, haven't even thought of all that," I'm starting to get nervous.

"And he's your son, so there will be girls..." He smirks at me.

"Fuck me. There are not enough diamonds in the world for that," I finally smile.

He pulls on a blade of grass and puts it between his teeth. We listen to the bubbling of the stream for a few precious minutes.

"C'mon. Let's go get your boy." He stands up, turns towards me, and extends his hand out. I hesitate for a few seconds. Then I reach up and take it. I can feel his strength, guiding me up on my feet. I would rather cut off my left nut than tell him this, but I'm glad he's here. I desperately need all the strength I can get.

\-------------

I'm wearing a hole on the ground, pacing up and down the narrow dirt road outside the airport, waiting for Finn to land. I know I'm driving Stonebridge insane with my nervous energy.

"Oi, can you sit down? You're driving me insane with all your nervous energy," he instructs me in his sergeant voice. What did I tell you? I know him so well, it's downright creepy.

"What's taking so damn long?" I know I'm whining, but I can't help it.

"If you don't stop moving around, I'm going to have to sit on you, mate."

I glare daggers at him, but good thing we don't get to test that theory when all of a sudden, we see this young man emerge from the airport. He has dark hair, a solid chest, hasn't yet gone through the growth spurt I myself experienced at 18 when I found myself growing a whole foot in a few short months, eating every single thing in the house that wasn't bolted down. He has a swagger I recognize. I'm gearing myself to man up and cross the street to where he is when a beautiful woman dressed in a skintight black dress with legs all the way to her throat, stops by where Finn was leaning against the wall. She puts her luggage on the floor. They talk intently for a few minutes, then she gives him a card. Finn trails a finger on her face, and ends with a nudge on her chin. She giggles and saucily walks away.

"What the fuck?" I ask Stonebridge. The fucker just laughs, as if the whole thing is amusing.

I forget my nervousness and cross the street, Michael right behind me. "Finn?" I call out. Blue-green eyes so familiar to me, the same exact ones that I see every morning in the mirror, stare back at me. His face so obviously on the verge between boy and man. My son. Holy shit.

"Fuck me," he says. "Damien?"

StoneBrick starts laughing at this. A surprised, deep, belly laugh. He starts slapping his thigh in amusement, "Holy cow. There is a God! And he has a bloody good sense of humor."

I punch his shoulder and face the young man in front of me. "Hi, buddy." My palms are sweating. "Thanks for visiting me. We have a lot of catching up to do."

"Well. Who's fuckin' fault is that?" His eyes look directly at me. Accusing.

"Language, bud." I have no clue why I just said that. I don't fucking care what fucking kind of language he fucking uses.

"Hello there, Finn," Michael smoothly interrupts. "I'm Michael, your dad's partner."

"Oh, I... I didn't know." He stammers, looking back and forth between Michael and I.

"Didn't know what?" I ask him, still not entirely out of the shock I feel upon seeing my face on another person.

"That you're ... you're... you know... into men." He says, clearly uncomfortable.

"Into...." I'm confused.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that." He immediately backpedals. "I've been brought up to respect everyone's choices."

At this point, Michael is laughing so hard that people are starting to give us a very large berth, not wanting to be in near vicinity to the big lunatic laughing his ass off.

"Ah, Gawd." The light finally turns on. "Not that kind of partners. We're soldiers, you little shit." I clarify.

"Soldiers?" It's his turn to be confused. "Mom told me you're a drug dealer."

"What?!" I'm really insulted. "Tell your mother that I am not, nor have I ever been, a drug fuckin’ dealer."

"Whatever you say, Damien." He tells me.

"Is this all your luggage?" I indicate the backpack he has slung over his shoulder. We have the same exact brown leather bracelet that I've had around my wrist ever since I can remember. Huh. What are the chances of that. He nods at me and we start walking to the car.

It's surreal, walking with this person. I keep surreptitiously looking at him out of the corner of my eye. He sighs, "I can feel you looking at me, you know."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I say, chagrined. "It's just I can't believe you're here.” Stonebridge clamps his hand on my shoulder and squeezes in support. “And you're so.... real."

He rolls his eyes at this. I was suddenly reminded of all the eye rolls I've ever given my mother. Payback really is a bitch.

"Well, I'm here because I "borrowed" a car out for a ride and ended up totaling it against Mrs. Nolan's morning glories." He tries to appear nonchalant but I can see regret and embarrassment in his face. "Mom and Marcus," he looks at me at the mention of his stepfather's name, "they agreed it's a good idea for me to come and meet you. Being my sperm donor and all."

"Well I'm glad. Whatever the circumstance.” I say, truthfully.

Before we can reach the car, I see a beautifully exotic creature walking towards us. All legs and straight, black hair. I give her my most disarming, charming smile. Finn gives her his most disarming, charming smile.

“Hello, gorgeous,” we say at the same fucking time. She stops in front of us, takes my hand, scribbles something on it and says, “Call me. And make sure to bring your delicious friend,” indicating my 16 year old son. Fuck me. This is just so wrong in so many levels. I think Stonebridge might wet his pants, laughing, clutching his stomach in pain.

We finally reach the car and Finn looks at me, “This piece of crap? Now I believe you’re not a drug dealer.” The little shit is hilarious. He looks at me with a twinkle in his eyes, amusement, anger, bitterness and unflailing hope clearly written on his vulnerable young face. I can’t believe I almost missed this opportunity. I can’t believe I’ve missed his first steps, his first words. Did he look for me when he was young? Who taught him how to catch a ball? How to shave? He obviously doesn’t have problems with the ladies. Who taught him about sex? I’ve missed so fucking much. I’m so fucking ashamed. But he’s still here. He still came. My son.

I can’t help it, I grab his shoulder and bring him to me for a hard, awkward hug. He freezes a moment, then I feel a hand tentatively go up my back for few priceless seconds before he pushes me away, embarrassed. I look up at Stonebridge and I see a suspicious wetness in his eyes. What a pair we make. A couple of tough guys crying over a simple touch. I dare not hope, I am positive I do not deserve it, but I'm starting to think....  really think... that there’s hope for me yet.


End file.
